The Man Who Questioned Himself
by Silverfish Imperitrix
Summary: When after 20 years a man is contacted by his old friend and schoolmate, he learns a terrible secret that threatens not only his life and sanity, but his very existence


**THE MAN WHO QUESTIONED HIMSELF**

by John Allen on Wednesday, April 20, 2011 at 9:13pm

It has been ten years since the disappearance and presumed death of Charles Graham. In that time a number of theories have been put forth to try and explain what happened that night, each more fantastic than the next. None however, can begin to approach the terrible truth of what occurred behind those locked doors.

I should begin by explaining my connection with the case. My name is Stephen Ward. Those of you who have followed the story from the beginning will recognize my name immediately; for those of you who don't, I was the last person on Earth to see Charles Graham alive.

It is with some trepidation that I begin the tale that I must now tell. I fear not for myself. Ever since that terrible night I have lived with a horror that has driven me to seek solace in drink. It is a habit which has cost me my health, and now the doctors inform me that in a few short months it will cost me my life. Death, if it can lift the burden that haunts my soul, I will gladly welcome. The memory of that awful night will let me know no peace.

This is not the first time I have told this story. Immediately after Grahams' disappearance the police questioned me at length as to what happened that night. I told them what I am about to tell you. I could see in their eyes that they doubted my sanity. I do not blame them. I don't expect you to believe me either. It is enough to finally put into words the truth of what happened.

I first met Charles Graham at college. He was one year ahead of me, a sophomore who was already recognized as one of the most intelligent and promising students to ever attend our school. Charles had the capacity to make brilliant intuitive leaps of knowledge in any subject he studied. Well versed in the arts of medicine and psychology, it was philosophy in which his intellect burned brightest. By his senior year he had learned all there was to know of the traditional philosophical disciplines. It was then that his studies took on a darker tone.

Fascinated by the legends that shrouded the history of my home town, Arkham, we journeyed there one summer in order to study in world-renowned library of nearby Miskatonic University. It was at this time that our friendship began to sour. Charles' studies into the occult became an obsession, one that threatened his health and sanity. He began to ignore his appearance totally. Hours spent pouring over dusty, half forgotten books of occult knowledge gave him a stooped posture; his hair was always wild and uncombed. His eyes were always red-rimmed and bleary from lack of sleep and the strain of reading words printed in faded ink on yellow, crumbling paper. I was afraid for him.

It was near the end of our planned stay when his breakdown, both physical and mental occurred. One morning after I had not seen him for several days, I found him collapsed on the front stoop of the house we shared. Evidently he had fainted on the way home the previous night for his clothes were wet with dew. Dragging him inside, I poured some brandy down his throat.

After a violent coughing fit, he'd revived somewhat, his cheeks reddening. With a start he sat upright, grabbing my arm in a grip so tight I cried out in pain.

"What... What happened?" he gasped, looking around in confusion, "How did I get here?"

"I found you lying on the porch, unconscious. Don't you remember anything?"

It was then that I noticed the odd state of his clothing. His suit was torn and ripped, and in places it appeared to have been burned by some kind of powerful acid. They reeked with the acrid tang of ozone.

Charles had regained his wits. Walking stiffly over to the bar he poured himself another drink. After he downed the the contents in one gulp, he turned to face me.

"The last thing I remember," he began, "was reciting a spell from the Necronomicon. After that everything is a blank." He stared at the floor, his brow furrowed in concentration. "The next thing I knew you were pouring that drink down my throat."

A chill ran down my spine. The Necronomicon!

"Considering its reputation, I'm surprised that they would let anyone, especially a student, have access to it," I said.

The question seemed to unnerve him. He stared at me for a long moment, as if struggling to decide if I could be trusted. Apparently he found me worthy, for he led me to the couch and bade me sit down. Without preamble he launched into a diatribe about mankind's comparative worth in relation to the universe.

`"What conceit is it," he said, "For man to believe that he is the only sentient creature in the universe? There ar3e galaxies so far away that time and distance cease to have meaning. And in the space between us and them, there are millions of solar systems with stars much like ours. Is it so hard to imagine that there might be other planets capable of supporting intelligent life? And if such planets do exist, isn't it possible that those life forms may be as far in advance of us as we are to the bacteria of our world? Man is but a fragile creature, still in his infancy, groping to discover the secrets of existence. In all the universe there be someone-or thing-that can give me the answers that I seek."

Charles voice had risen to the point he was almost shouting. A red flush had crept up his collar; the veins of his neck stood out like cords. A growing unease gripped me. In this state of mind he could cause great harm to himself or others with the black knowledge he might glean from the Necronomicon.

"My God, Charles," I remonstrated, "You can't possibly believe that any good can come from a book like the Necronomicon, can you? It was written by a madman and to study it would drive you mad as well. It may be a cliche, but there are certain things man was never meant to know."

I have never seen a man so enraged. Without a word he stalked out of the room. That dy marked the end of our friendship.

Later that evening, a passing security guard noticed the dim beam of a flashlight in the locked and darkened library. Upon investigating, he found a man standing over the shattered glass case that contained the Necronomicon. Apparently dissatisfied with his limited access to the book, Charles had attempted to steal it.

He came from a rich and influential family so the resulting scandal was hushed up. Criminal charges were dropped in exchange for his promise to leave the university and never return. Regardless, his academic career was over. No reputable school would accept him as a student, much less trust him with anything of value.

Disgraced and with limited options, he decided to leave the country. I tried to reach him a number of times, but he refused to speak with me. On the day he left I received a letter. In it, he accused me of betraying his trust, even implying that I had had a hand in his disgrace. It was the last I was to hear of him until the night he met his awful fate.

Over the next twenty years, Charles' exploits became legendary. Every few months the papers would report on some new adventure he was undertaking. He roamed the world, studying and learning with philosophers and sages in every corner of the globe. In all that time he never returned to the United States. He was not only a man without a country. He was a man who didn't belong to the world in which he'd been born.

The night of July 23rd was hot and humid, the air heavy with moisture and the tension brought by an approaching electrical storm. It was with curiosity (and more than a little apprehension) that I approached the crumbling brownstone Charles had inherited. It had previously served as as an apartment house, but on his return to the country Charles had evicted the tenants and moved in himself. He lived alone, with the antiques and weird artifacts acquired in his travels. Of staff there was only an aged manservant, and he went home every evening. At my knock it was this servant who silently opened the heavy front door. With a nod he acknowledged my presence and ushered me into a richly appointed room.

"Master Charles will be with you momentarily," he said in a weak and quavering voice. "He apologizes for the delay. Would you care for a drink while you wait," he asked, "Some brandy, perhaps?"

I nodded assent. "That would be very nice. Thanks you."

He shuffled off to make my drink. I took the opportunity to survey the room. When it had been an apartment building, the bottom floor had been evenly divided into two sections. Charles had partially removed the wall between apartment, and then extensively remodeled the interior. I was in what must have been the living area. From the direction the servant had gone came the soft clink of glass. That must be the kitchen. Across the room, shrouded in darkness, a stairway led to a second floor.

The room had recently been paneled in an expensive, highly polished wood. Trophies that I surmised to be the legacy of Charles many expeditions adorned the walls. Some of them I recognized-a death mask from Bhutan, an Egyptian ceremonial dagger-but there were many ornaments that represented cultures completely unknown to me. One in particular caught my eye. It was an intricate carving in green soapstone of a type of many-tentacled sea beast, rising from the ruins of a shattered city. On the base of the sculpture were carved a series of intricate designs that I took to be a form of writing, but of a kind I had never seen before. Although understanding of their meaning was beyond me, Just looking at them made me uneasy.

My examination of the room was interrupted by the sudden arrival of the storm. With a flash of lightning and a peel of thunder that shook the house it was upon us. Rain battered the window in sheets while the wind howled and roared about us. I was glad for the safety of the house.

The butler arrived with my drink. I sipped it gladly, enjoying the warmth as it spread through my body, serving to ally my apprehensions at seeing Charles after so many years. My mind was awhirl. What were his intentions? Would he greet me as a long lost friend? Or as someone he felt had betrayed him, leading to his self imposed exile? I was hoping that time had healed his wounds and he would accept me as a friend. Even after twenty years I still missed our discussions on life and philosophy. While I could never hope to match him in sheer intellect, our conversations had always been lively and informative.

My musings were interrupted by a heavy tread on the stairs. The room was dimly lit, so I could barely discern the figure that walked slowly down the steps. When he reached the bottom, a flash of lightning lit the room for several seconds and I saw my former friend for the first time in twenty years..

In my shock I almost dropped my glass. At the sight of my face Charles laughed out loud. There he stood in front of me, not looking a day older than when I last saw him. For a fleeting instant I was struck by the ridiculous notion that he had stepped through my door in Arkham to appear immediately on the stairs here twenty years later.

"Charles," I cried, extending my hand, "It's good to see you after all these years."

He took my outstretched hand and shook it warmly. "It's been a long time," he said. "Looking me up and down, he said, "The years have been kind to you, Stephen You look good."

I opened my mouth to ask why he hadn't seemed to age when he cut me off. "You must have a number of questions. Let's go upstairs. I can explain better up there."

Puzzled by this mysterious behavior, curiosity compelled me to follow him. We took the stairs to the second floor. Unlike the one below, the upper section remained relatively untouched. He led me down the hall to what was obviously his study. Bookshelves covered the walls, filled with old and musty volumes of arcane knowledge. In the far corner sat a desk where a single lamp burned dimly.

Aside form the occasional flashes of lightning, it gave off the only illumination.

There was one thing I found curious. Furniture was scattered about randomly. There was no pattern to their placement; chairs, tables and stools all vied for space on the cluttered floor. Charles sat down on one corner of the desk and with a wave of his hand indicated that I should take a chair.

"You're wondering what this furniture is here for," he began, "Please don't think me mad. I'm going to give you a demonstration of something extraordinary that I learned in my travels." He grinnes, revealing two rows of perfect teeth. There was no mirth in his smile. It reminded me of the grin of a shark. The old house, his odd behavior, and the intermittent flashes of lightning combined to create a mood of terror and despair.

"What is it you want to show me, " I said, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.

Charles stood up and began to pace back and forth. His face, half hidden in shadow, made it impossible to read his expression. Then he spoke. "What I want to show you is just how wrong you were to mock me all those years ago."

"I wasn't mocking you," I protested. "I was trying to protect you. In the hands of a novice the Necronomicon is as dangerous as a loaded gun."

"You are as blind now as you were twenty years ago," he sneered. "You think that because something exists outside the realm of human experience that you can dismiss it out of hand. I've seen things that no other man has ever seen, and from that I have learned the one great thing. Life is a dream, Stephen. Since we are a part of that dream it seems real to us. But it is a dream nonetheless. Physics tells us that there is no solid matter, that what we perceive to be reality is in truth swirling electrons in constant flux." He tapped the side of his head. "Only in here does reality truly exist."

His ideas fascinated me. Charles' eyes glowed like coals; his face was flushed with triumph My fear had been swept away by the fervor of his words. If what he said was true, then the struggles and triumphs of mankind amounted to less than nothing. Still, as a scientist of no mean accomplishments, I required more than words to convince me. Objective truth was called for.

"Proof," I said, "seems to be the only element we are lacking."

"Then proof you shall have," he answered. "That chair you are sitting on. I no longer believe that it exists."

One moment I was sitting comfortably in my chair. The next I was sprawled on the floor. I got up slowly, dazed from my fall. Looking around in bewilderment, wondering how I could have fallen off my chair, I was surprised to find that it had disappeared.

Charles grinned hugely at me. His body shook as he tried to suppress his laughter.

What happened?" I asked. "Where did the chair go?"

"I willed it out of existence."

I did not believe him. It was some magician's trick he had learned. Or perhaps he had hypnotized me without my knowledge. How could he make something disappear by willing it? It was an obvious attempt to frighten me. But why? For what purpose?

"I see that you still doubt me," Charles said. "You must have wondered about this pile of furniture. I knew it would take multiple demonstrations to convince you. Take that lamp over there." He pointed at a garishly ornate lamp with a tattered shade. "I don't believe that it exists."

The lamp vanished. There was no flash of light, no sound, nothing you might expect. It simply vanished, winking out in an instant, leaving no trace that it had ever been there.

"Here," he said, "I'll show you again."

Thus began the most terrifying half hour of my life. He repeatedly made objects disappear with no apparent effort. One time I held a piece of furniture, an old telephone stand, and made it disappear. When the demonstration ended, and all the furniture had been disposed of, I was paralyzed with fear. He had convinced me that existence was no more than a pitiful joke.

Facing each other from across the room, his cruel smirk bored in the pit of my very soul. In a paroxysm of terror I teetered on the edge of madness.

"And now, Stephen, for the final demonstration," he snarled. "Twenty years ago you were my only friend. I loved and trusted you like a brother. And how was my trust repaid? With ridicule and treachery. For years I've traveled the world, learning from the wisest men on the planet. But I always carried a seed with me, deep in my heart, and now that seed has flowered. Now is when I have my revenge on the man who betrayed me."

I knew what was going to happen next. He was planning to erase me from existence, to sweep me away to nothingness. My mind raced feverishly, desperately hoping for a way to save myself. He watched me silently, enjoying my fear and terror.

I considered appealing to his common decency and humanity, but those were things he had left behind long ago. All traces of my former friend had disappeared, replaced by this grinning demon who stood before me.

Lightning flared, illuminating the room. In that brief flash of light, I saw him clearly. The illusion of youth had been stripped from him, replaced with a terrible concentration. The tension in his face threatened to rip it apart.

The idea, when it came, was so simple and yet so sweetly sublime. Despite the fact that Charles power seemed to require little or no effort, That could not be the case. The mental energy required must be enormous; one look at his face told me that. And like all weapons, its power must be aimed and tightly controlled. If I could disrupt his concentration, I might be able to escape – at least temporarily. I had no idea at what distance his power worked, but if I could escape the immediate vicinity, I might have a chance to prepare a defense. What that could be, I didn't know, but the fate he had in store for me was too horrible not to try to save myself. It was a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

"Answer me one question before I go, Charles. Is that too much to ask?"

Charles shook his head. "No," he said, "but it won't change anything."

I grinned at him ferociously. The beginnings of doubt crept over his face.

"There's just one thing you seem to have overlooked," I said confidently.

"I've done no such thing," he snapped. But there was fear in his voice.

Heartened by this response, I said. "You say that reality is an artificial construct, that nothing really exists. If this is true – THEN YOU DON'T EXIST EITHER!"

What happened next is known to anyone even vaguely familiar with the case. The old manservant was downstairs, preparing to leave for the night, when he heard Charles' scream, a sound horribly cut off almost as soon as it had begun. When no one answered his knock he called the police, who broke down the locked door. They found the room empty except for me lying unconscious on the floor, and one other thing I don't like to think about.

The police questioned me for hours, only letting me go when Charles' body wasn't found. Nor will they ever find it. In an ironic way, he did have his revenge on me. Since that night I have tried to drown my memories with drink and drugs. Nothing helps. Sometimes I wake up screaming, having dreamed of the fate I so narrowly avoided, and my thoughts turn to Charles. No one believes my story you see, passing it off as the ravings of a drunken lunatic. But I will never forget the sight that greeted me when I awakened from my faint. Explain, if you can, how Charles Graham disappeared from inside a locked room, leaving only an empty suit of clothes crumpled on the floor.

THE END?


End file.
